


Natura deficit, fortuna mutatur

by Hyperboloids



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Uni AU, but mostly pining and hanDS, honestly this was a huge excuse to finally write that cross country running AU okay do not @ me, past injury mentions, some festive mood in there, sports AU, this does not take place in America because I refuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28296906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyperboloids/pseuds/Hyperboloids
Summary: Winter semester is cross-country running season - which Joe doesn't care about, but his friend Andy coaches the university team so now he has to.It helps that the new transfer, Nicky, flirts with him on the first day.Or was it flirting?
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 10
Kudos: 143
Collections: Secret Santa Fics





	Natura deficit, fortuna mutatur

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa gif exchange for the TOG server! 
> 
> Thank you to Ishi, who took the time to beta this whole thing like an absolute boss and gave me some needed wisdom (kill all my darlings fkezlez)  
> Thank you to Teo and Prosey and Poppy who let me yell at them about it, and to all my server sweethearts who let me spam in their DMs way too late into the night.  
> Love you all.
> 
> Happy Holidays, May <3 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it :3

Joe’s semester starts pretty well, all things considered. He finally likes most of his classes, has time for his extracurricular art classes and moved in with one of his best friends. Of course, he didn’t expect to be involved in her drama.

His new flatmate and long-term friend Quýnh coaches athletics part-time. So does his oldest friend, Andy. The former coaches high jump, the latter cross country running. And it just so happens that, that summer, Andy’s once up and coming star athlete on her girls’ team, Nile, decided to switch over to high jump full time after a knee injury.

Quýnh and Andy were destined to meet, Joe thinks. It was clear, from the first time he forced them to attend his end of year showcase, and they both ended up snickering at the same painting and spending the evening huddled in a corner drinking cheap sparkling wine and meanly pointing at first year art students’ works. The problem is that, as they are both insanely dedicated to their respective sports, romance was never the first thing on their mind. And Joe never intended to get involved, playing matchmaker for two power-hungry jocks: they could figure it out on their own, by themselves.

That was the plan. Until Andy gets him involved.

She sits down in front of him, shoulders square and black hoodie zipped up tight. Joe squints at her monochrome outfit.

“I need you to time my runners” she says, in lieu of a greeting. That’s Andy for you.

Joe raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? I need you to finish my cryptography assignment and do my laundry. Somehow I don’t think you’ll agree.”

Andy stares him down. He puts on a smile, reclines back in his chair.

This is a fun game they like to play, which Joe calls “Andy learns social manners with friends!”, while Andy keeps a mental tally of all the times Joe made her ask politely for something. He’s paid for it already by having to cover her coffee orders most weeks. And bring them to her.

Joe loves his friends dearly.

She sighs, curt and annoyed. Joe smiles pleasantly back.

“ _Please_ time my runners for me?” Her tone is not very sincere, but he’ll take it. “Just until I find someone who wants to take care of that task full-time. I’m sure a bunch of first years will sign up soon enough.”

“Why don’t you ask Booker?” he retorts, and Andy just cocks her head.

“Booker is apparently too _busy_ ”, she says, dismissively air-quoting Booker’s words, when they both know Booker’s calendar is mostly taken up by appointments with the liquor cabinet. “And he’s only sober 20 to 30% of the time, so I wouldn’t be able to rely on him for meets anyway.”

“Alright,” Joe nods, conceding the point. “Now, what do _I_ get in exchange for having to stand in the cold and time ungrateful athletes who will be too busy being competitive to appreciate my charms as is due?”

“I’m sure you’ll survive such an ordeal,” her voice drips with sarcasm, “but name your price. We’ll see what I can do.”

Just as Joe is about to request for her to pose for his showcase painting, she gets up. “Have to go take care of the new transfers. See you at 3pm. Sharp.”

She’s gone just as fast, striding towards the library doors.

This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last, that Andy makes decisions for him. And the outcomes have not _always_ been catastrophic, so Joe goes back to his textbook with a shrug, unconcerned.

*

Turns out that Joe underestimated how much he was going to hate this assignment. He has to stand on the hilly field, between the dirt paths and the athletics set ups, completely at the mercy of strong wind. He has about a million stopwatches all tangled up, a chipped clipboard and a pen that doesn’t write properly. And all he has to keep his mind occupied is the sight of the same people running circles after circles.

He glances around, feeling immediate relief at the sight of Quýnh’s small silhouette approaching. She gives him a tight hug.

“You’ve finally decided to join athletics?” she asks, glee barely hidden in her voice at seeing him miserable and shivering.

“Ha ha,” he deadpans and Quýnh grins, “you wish. Nah. Andy roped me into managing all of this,” he says while flailing his encumbered arms “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

At the mention of her name, Quýnh looks towards Andy who is busy putting the fear of gods into her runners, standing at attention in front of them. In a past life she was an army general, Joe reckons. Or maybe an admiral.

“Well, I’m glad I get to see you here,” Quýnh finally says, slipping an arm into his elbow and standing side by side in compatible silence while her own athletes keep coming in and start stretching. Joe waves at Nile, whose answering smile is as bright as ever, only rivaled by her pink knee brace, a spot of colour in the otherwise drab green and brown landscape. Andy pats his shoulder as she walks past them.

His heart swells a little, and he wrangles with the stopwatch to grab Quýnh’s hand, who remains a calm and solid presence next to him until her athletes are ready to start their training

Maybe this is not so bad, if he gets to do this with his friends. For his friends.

He makes himself busy to distract himself from the cold by ensuring all the stopwatches are untangled on his forearm, when he is interrupted.

“The blue stopwatch is mine” comes in a quiet, accented voice and Joe turns around.

Standing in front of him is one of Andy’s new runners. He’s lean and broad at the same time, standing eye-to-eye with Joe and he has the kind of face that Joe has definitely come across in an Italian museum. His eyes are the same colour as the clouds and the grass, all at once.

Lacking any impulse control, he opens his mouth.

“Ah yes, this one then,” he says, holding up the red stopwatch with a straight face. He can’t help it.

The man blinks at him, perturbed. “Are you colourblind?” he asks, not unkindly, and Joe closes one eye in thought.

“Am I?” he replies, “or do I not care enough about this task to assign each runner their own stopwatch?”

The man makes a little pout, - gone in a second- , and looks at the stopwatches around Joe’s wrist. He slowly reaches, his hands moving and unwrapping the cords as he keeps eye contact with Joe, face the picture of innocence.

“The blue one is mine” he repeats again, enunciating the words.

Joe’s brain stops working as soon as his fingers brush against his skin.

He looks down, and only the blue stopwatch remains. All the others are around the man’s neck.

“Problem solved” he says as he takes a step away, and another, and Joe thinks he can see the left side of his mouth rise a few millimetres, but he’s still too dumbstruck to do anything about it.

He’s left standing there, blinking, the runner jogging slowly to the starting line, and this time he _swears_ he can see his eyes on him for a second, _laughing_.

He’s distracted for a second, then it dawns on him he has to time all the runners’ laps with _one_ stopwatch. He swears under his breath. Andy will owe him for this.

\--

Nicky knows he was out of bounds—maybe. He’s new here and doesn’t know anyone and he definitely, _definitely_ panicked when the _very_ handsome man holding stopwatches started to banter with him.

His nerves are still alight and his skin still feels slightly flushed, and he’s supposed to be trying to make a good impression on his new coach and prove he’s not totally useless. At running, anyway.

Nicky steals a last look at him, alone on the sidelines, frowning down at the stopwatch and looking towards him. He quickly looks away, trying not to smile.

A shrill beep suddenly sounds, he almost panics before his body takes over, conditioned to respond to the sound.

Everything fades out. He has to run a 1500, and he wants to run it under 3:50 minutes. No reason he can’t do it now.

He feels his lungs expand and doesn’t care about who he’s passing, he just keeps his breathing steady and feels his thighs starting to burn, welcoming it. He can’t hear anything but thinks Andy just shouted something. He keeps on going. He finishes one lap and out of the corner of his eye, sees a head of curl and a deep blue shirt.

His breath hitches, but he is past the point of feeling his body, wind rushing past his ears and knowing if he passes the second lap now he probably can keep his edge and finish first.

Almost at the end of the second lap, he pushes, pushes until his ankle twitches, hears himself breathe as if he’s outside his body.

He blinks and finds himself on the last 300, just like that, doesn’t even have to kick to make it ahead. He jogs down the finish line and beelines for the man with the stopwatch, trying not to let his endorphin rush make him stare too hard at his jawline.

*

Joe jots down the time on the chipped clipboard, letting himself look at the man jogging to a stop after the finish line, cheeks flushed and hair disheveled.

He turns back and writes down everyone else’s time, including laps, as Andy instructed

He’s a little smug about his brain letting him remember so many disparate sequences of numbers, but nothing fills him with more joy than clicking his pen shut and dropping the clipboard on Andy’s chair, finally done.

The stopwatch guy walks towards him, and Joe just holds his gaze as he waits.

And without a word, Joe slides the stopwatch around his neck as soon as he’s in reach. The man’s eyes widen, almost comically at the gesture. He’s still panting, catching his breath from the practice run where he finished first with seemingly no strain or effort. 

“Wha-

“Hi, Stopwatch.” He smiles, hand outstretched. “I’m Joe.”

It takes less than two seconds for the man to look down at the stopwatch around his neck then back up at Joe, his gaze finally landing on the clipboard Joe was holding a few seconds ago.

He gives Joe a hint of a smile, all in his eyes as he shakes Joe’s hand.

“I’m Nicolò” he answers, voice a rasp, and Joe doesn’t feel like letting go as they stare at each other. Neither does Nicolò, it seems.

Andy swats the back of his head with the clipboard, so he _does_ have to.

“Not so useless after all, I see,” she says, backhanding his arm gently. She turns to Nicolò. “Good pace, Nicky. I think you’ll fit right in.” Pointing at Joe, she adds, “And don’t let him distract you. I’m not losing another one of my athletes to the high jump squad.”

Joe raises his eyebrows, teasing.

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to work under Quyhn,” he says, mockingly sweet, and Andy fixes him with a death stare as Nicolò chokes a little and covers it up with a cough when they both turn towards him.

“I’m going to go stretch” he mumbles, a lilt on the last word which makes Joe scrunch up his face in a half smile.

“Nice to meet you, Nicolò,” Joe waves at him as he retreats and looks back to Andy a second too late. She already has her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“You are not getting anywhere _near_ my best timer, Joe.”

He feigns innocence, one hand on his chest.

“I’ll have you know I was incredibly professional!”

“Is that why all my stopwatches are lying about on the field?” she deadpans, and he sees the pile of coloured plastic watches, neatly arranged on the grass. He almost sighs when he goes to pick them up, but can’t help the smile that stretches his lips when he remembers how they got there in the first place.

*

Joe’s routine is nothing like what he had envisioned for himself. Every morning he drags himself to class, yawning and squinting at chalkboards that fail to make sense before 10am. He then settles in the library by his lonesome—unless Nile joins him, curled around an armchair like a cat—and trudges through his readings and assignments.

Oh, and to cut through the sludge of mundanity, he also stands outside every day in the dreaded cold, looking at other people trying to warm themselves by moving and running around.

He shivers, his gaze on Nicolò, whose cheeks and nose are already flushed from the cold.

He looks down at the array of stopwatches, spotting the blue one immediately.

He untangles it, resets it, and cracks a smile.

\----

Nicky is freezing. He distractedly slaps the sides of his thighs, trying to regain some feeling in them. He slept absolutely terribly the night before. The meet coming up next week keeping him awake.

The weather is definitely not helping. He has not yet acclimated the humidity and altitude of the town.

He rolls his ankles as he jogs, feeling a small twine in his left one. He grits his teeth, falls into formation to stretch as Andy efficiently calls out the programme for the day.

Three repeats of 3km, accompanied by uphill sprinting exercises and topped by a finish practice race through the official circuit..

It’s nothing Nicky hasn’t done before, but he’s filled with dread all the same. His eyes go to where the chute would be in a real race, visualising the feel and sound of the imaginary tape snapping against his chest.

He just has to push through. He’ll be alright.

\---

Joe frowns a little, seeing the pack of runners appear more ragged than usual. Andy’s voice rings through the mist, clear and unforgiving. The normally pale blue uniforms are looking grim, spatters and dirt coating most of the runners.

His eyes search for a second and, sure enough, he finds Nicolò’s, eerily striking in the dim haze of the poor weather conditions.

They seem pained, a brief flash, and then Nicky’s off on their third rep of the practice. Two runners are already out, sent on the side for a walk off by Andy, her face a dark storm.

Joe walks up to her, standing next to a pile of abandoned runners’ gear, sweaters and water bottles half-drenched in the 99% humidity.

“Did someone wage war against your wife, family and tribe?” he asks off-handedly, keeping his attention on the stopwatches.

Andy huffs.“If we want any shot at next week’s meet, they’re going to have to tough it out. And that’s all there is to it.” She briefly looks at him, and he meets her gaze.

“I know you’re still upset Nile decided to go for high jump full time—” he starts, and Andy looks away, swallowing.

“I’m not _upset_ , Joe, I’m trying to salvage the reputation of the cross-country teams in this dump of a university,” she seethes, words jumbled out. She raises a hand, motioning to one more runner to stop after he falls for the second time, mud plastered all over his front.

She hisses, and shifts her weight, putting it on her right side. Joe refrains from looking at her left knee, aware she’s probably wearing her brace today due to the humidity in the air.

He decides to laugh instead. “I don’t think my scholarship organisation would want to hear you say this about the place, what with it being ranked ... Was it second in the country this year?” he smacks his lips briefly, clicking his stopwatches in order, methodical, as the runners start a new lap.

He keeps the blue one in his left hand.

Andy crosses her arms, foot tapping on the wet grass.

“Okay. Fine, maybe I’m freaking out a _little_ about the meet.”

Joe sighs, steps sideways and wraps one arm around her.

“No one will hold it against you if the teams are not perfect. It’s the first meet of the season, and you did a great job last year.”

She shrugs, letting her head fall on his shoulder. “I know, but they have _expectations_ now, Joe.”

Joe twists his head and gives her temple a kiss, his head falling of its own accord on top of hers.

“You’ll always be the one with the greatest expectations, Andy. Worry about those first, you’ll breeze through easily with the sponsor reps.”

She laughs, a short little thing, but it’s there. She rubs her hands, whistling with two fingers and Joe winces away from her with a grimace at the loudness of it.

She gives him a short grin, eyes soft and jogs towards her runners who look confused.

“We’re cutting the last rep, take 10 to stretch and then I want you all on the starting line,” she orders, voice projecting far.

Joe walks over to where the girls’ team is continuing with their reps, unperturbed. He walks by and a light blue water bottle catches his eye.

He stops. What would be the odds?

\---

Nicky doesn’t know how or why, but Andy’s mood has cleared up and they’re exempted from the last rep.

He could kiss whoever made this happen.

He’s panting, breaths too deep, hands around his left knee as he stretches his hamstring. He rolls his ankle, still feeling a twitch, and decides to ignore it. He has to. They’re almost done with practice. They only have the uphill running exercises left to do. . He’ll be able to go directly to his room and ice it soon. He’ll be alright for tomorrow’s practice, nothing to worry about.

He glances at the chute, then past it – the hill is looming, made darker by the stormy clouds behind and he closes his eyes for a second. He needs to be able to push through the two rises, and he’ll be fine. Control the downhill, double check the spikes Andy’s making them wear today due to the weather conditions.

It’s all about preparation.

He breathes out, toes braced on the fading white line.

Everyone feels tense around him, a buzzing energy. They all know the first meet sets the tone for the season, sets the entire mood for the weeks of training to come. He’s lucky that he can count on his old times to push him forward in the starting blocks for the upcoming races, but he won’t be so lucky if the team events drag them back first thing in the season.

The muted beep sound propels him forward. He adjusts his footing to the spiked flats and he’s off, the hill feeling like it’s turned into an ocean of mud.

The sound of feet traipsing and splattering is deafening. Nicky is unable to distinguish how many are tailing him. He keeps a short lead, up until the turn ahead and the first hill.

If he makes it through the wooded area first he can take advantage on the second hill and keep it for the rest of the race.

He’s pumping his arms, breathing slightly south of strained, and he revels in the warmth of his muscles even as his face is hit with icy droplets from the sky.

 _This is fine_ , he thinks. A mantra. _Don’t focus on anything else, just make it to the first hill_.

He kicks up, shoes gripping through soft dirt, and feels himself sliding.

He almost lets out a pained sound, feeling the grass under his feet, but he keeps pushing, still. Lets himself go downhill, long strides, _don’t slip up now_.

He hears pained breathing on his left, maybe a few metres away and adrenaline rushes through him, cheeks and ears burning.

At the second hill, his his ankle twists. He recovers, just enough to keep running but there is a visible falter in his left stride, and he just knows this is what the second and third runners behind are waiting for.

He has no choice but to push uphill, emptying what feels like his last reserves. The downhill momentum should be enough to carry him through the last kilometer, through to the chute, and then it’s over—

He barely hears anything as he stumbles through the finish. Andy’s eyes are on him, half surprise and half concern.

He barrels through, can’t stop, his limbs not responding. When he finally manages to get a grip on the side wall, he doubles over, his head in pain, all the blood rushing, rushing—

He feels a warm touch on his wrist, something being pushed into his hand. He can’t even draw enough breath to speak, so he settles for a ragged exhale as he looks sideways.

His water bottle.

He almost moans at the trickle of cold water down his throat, his heart rate coming down with his breathing.

He focuses his gaze and Joe is standing there, holding the blue stopwatch.

“I didn’t know breaking last season’s best was a thing during training,” he says, voice light and Nicky blinks.

He did what now?

“Oh. Oh shit,” he mumbles, and Joe laughs, a warm, cheerful sound.

“Yeah, you can say that again.” Joe points to Andy who’s holding the rest of the stopwatches, giving a few words to each runner and a couple pats on their shoulders.

She turns her head once towards him. Nicky swallows.

“Hey, practice’s over right?” Joe says, à propos of nothing, and Nicky nods.

“Cool. Want to meet me in a few minutes for coffee? I’m exhausted.”

Nicky sees it for what it is—a rescue—and he’s beyond grateful. He knows Andy will want to debrief what just happened—his was a practice, not a full-fledged race, and what he just did was dangerous on the best of days. With the post run crash comes the bracing clarity that he pushed way too hard, too fast, and for no real incentive.

If he exhausts himself before a meet, he’s as good as useless to this team.

He gives Joe a nod, then looks down at his hand, still holding his bottle.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

*

Joe’s holding his steaming cup with both hands, the first respite of the day. He’s finally sheltered from the wind, walking in narrow streets of slippery cobblestones With Nicky’s silent presence by his side.

Joe has spent enough time around both Nile and Andy to recognize when someone is focusing all their willpower into not limping. He thinks of today’s practice, remembering how Andy made them run the hills. He grimaces at the thought.

“Foot, ankle or knee?” he asks, pointing towards Nicky’s left leg with his cup.

Nicky looks as if he woke up from a daydream, eyes pinched for a second.

He seems more focused when he replies. “Ankle.” He frowns again, this time at Joe.“How do you know?”

“I have athlete friends,” he winks back at Nicky. “I’m used to seeing them trying to walk off an injury. A few months ago, Nile had a tough time of it so we were taking turns visiting her post-surgery.”

He smiles, conjuring up memories of living on Nile’s sofa, watching reruns of her favourite baking show while her flatmates asked him for help with their stats homework.

“Andy also got injured?” Nicky asks, taking a sip from his coffee, one hand in his pocket, his elbow brushing against Joe’s in time with his steps.

Joe clears his throat. “Mn, few years ago. She has this tendency to push herself a little bit too much.” He looks pointedly at Nicky, then winks once more. “Especially right before an important meet.”

“I’m not used to this,” he blurts out, confused at his own words but not stopping now that a flow of words decide to come out. “Andy’s concern. When I joined the team, she told me the most important thing was for me not to injure myself again, even if that meant not beating records on the first year.”

He stops walking for a second, and Joe stops patiently next to him, eyes alert.

“My old coaches had a different approach.” He can feel his throat getting dry. “When my ankle started acting up, they saw it as me not trying hard enough.”

Joe’s face iskind as they resume walking. Nicky is grateful for his silence – but he also notices that his jaw clenched for a second when Nicky was talking.

Nicky braces himself. “One day I’m preparing for the regional meet.I’ve been up at 5:30 each day for two weeks.I go up this hill. It’s the tricky one. I’m doing fine, and the next second,” he throws up his hands, almost spilling his drink, and Joe cracks a smile, a glint of white teeth making Nicky grin back. “The next second I’m on the ground, ankle the size of a tennis ball. My teammates had to carry me off, and then I was in the hospital.”

Joe sighs, edges closer to Nicky, telegraphing his movement so Nicky has time to back away.

Nicky just takes a step closer, feeling his cheeks burn. He powers through his story, anything to distract him from the comforting touch.

“Surgery and physiotherapy and then I’m back on the bench.” He nods to himself, seeing it clear as day in his mind. “And I’m sitting there, surrounded by the team. Guys I trust, you know? Guys I’ve been running with for over two years.”

Joe nods, squeezing his arm slightly.

“And I’ve never felt lonelier than surrounded by all of them, with no one talking to me. Or even asking me how I am.” He shrugs, pitiful, and Joe takes the empty cup from his hand, stacking it on top of his. “Found out later the coaches had told them I was out of the team. No one had bothered to tell me, though. I just gave them all a chance to get best time, and that was all I was. A record to beat,” he finishes his voice feeling rough. He can’t remember the last time he talked so much in one go.

“My instinct right now is to give you a hug, but I have no idea how long you need to know a person before you can do that and not seem superbly inappropriate.” Joe says, his tone so light that Nicky relaxes his shoulders.

He realises he’s let out a giggle when Joe looks at him, and he has to look away for a second.

‘Maybe two more of these walks and we can start to discuss one sided hugs.” He says, cheeks hurting, and Joe extends his hand.

“Deal”

Nicky’s all too happy to shake on it.

*

It becomes a small thing. When Joe’s day becomes too full, when assignments stop making sense and when he sees Nicky zone out at the end of practice, they go and get coffee together.

Joe waits a little after practice, falling into step with Nicky. They start chatting about anything and everything: what Nicky studies (Philosophy, apparently) and what his top ten dishes are (Nonna’s homemade dishes).What Joe wants to do when he finishes his degree (research, preferably at the same place Nile is already working for her master’s thesis so he can torment her when she pulls all-nighters at the lab), and what he likes to paint with the most (oils, but it’s so painstakingly slow that watercolours usually win).

Before they realise it, they’re having study sessions in the library. As it runs out, spending over an hour after practice going on walks ends up taking time away from attending to his workload.

Sitting across from Joe in a quiet library, all hushed silences and slow breathing, is Nicky's personal idea of hell.He's constantly distracted by Joe's hands, whether they are scratching some equations on haphazardly arranged papers or digging working through his thick curls.

Nicky blinks away for the tenth time, shaking away the thought of playing with that one curl at Joe’s nape.

It’s becoming a problem, he thinks, absent-mindedly. He tries to focus on a paragraph about Comte's influence on French epistemology and fails.

Between training every day, classes, assignments, and his new tentative but budding social life, Nicky feels exhausted. Only now, with Joe, does he feel like he has the energy to tackle all of it. Before he can realise it, he has been seeing Joe almost every single day, whether from a distance on the pitch, in the library, or for a walk with coffee on campus. Somehow, Nicky’s not tired of it at all.

One of the rings on Joe’s fingers catches the light and Nicky looks up at Joe’s eyes—sure enough they too are illuminated by the ray of sunlight. Joe winks back at him, with a smile, before returning to his book.

Nicky’s rabbit heartbeat drowns out all other sounds as he focuses back on his book.

*

Nicky’s favourite morning run takes him along the west side of campus, brick buildings stark against the green hills in the distance.

He always finishes with the hills, working his strength building exercises by going up and down, a gentle flow, until he finished on the highest one, overseeing the whole campus on one side and the wilderness on the other.

He slept in a little today. He studied late last night, with Andy of all people. She seemed to struggle with her review paper, needing the company to keep working at it.

He didn’t ask, but he appreciated her presence all the same..

Sometimes he gets a little too flustered by his study sessions with Joe to actually focus on his assignments.

The same Joe who keeps occupying his thoughts is sitting on Nicky’s favourite hill, sketchbook and watercolours out, paintbrush twirled between two fingers as he looks at the sky—for once barely cloudy.

Nicky flops down next to him, starts to stretch his legs, bending towards his feet. Joe doesn’t say anything, but then he doesn’t have to. Nothing about this feels forced, or awkward.

“I can’t wrap my head around the fact that you do this every morning,” Joe says after a few minutes, dipping his paintbrush in a small plastic goblet.

“I’m more surprised that you managed to wake up before your first class,” Nicky retorts, and feels his mouth curve up when Joe scoffs, mock-offended.

“What can I say? When it comes to painting, I either stay up all night or wake up too early.”

Joe turns his drawing towards Nicky, the blue of the sky an almost exact match, edges of the paper still wet.

“For running, I’d do anything.” Nicky says, matter-of-fact, realising it’s almost painfully too simple when he says it like that.

“That sounds to me like a double-edged sword,” Joe murmurs, gaze going back to his watercolours, paintbrush hovering. 

“It might very well be,” He answers in an exhale, unwilling to dwell on what price he has paid in the past, what it could still cost him now.

*

Nicky crosses the finish line, skids over the mud and rain and bends over, hands on his knees. He’s trying to get his breath back but it was _so close_ —too close. He is dry heaving and trembling, blood rushing to his head in a painful thud.

He doesn’t want to be sick right now, doesn’t want to do anything but collapse somewhere far from the crowd, the coaches, the reps.

He’s about to kneel down, his breath still faltering, when he feels a solid hand across his shoulder blades. Like a point of impact, warmth spreads—it tingles and numbs the ache, reaches his chest like a balm. He doesn’t register sounds, just the hand, then another cupping his elbow, steadying him. Suddenly he’s upright, small steps towards the sidelines, past a cluster of people—

And finally there’s quiet.

It’s quiet.

Sound comes rushing past, he can hear himself breathing harshly, erratic bursts of air. Joe is standing in front of him, raindrops glistening in his hair and beard. His eyes are so intense they actually break through Nicky’s string of jumbled thoughts.

“Hey Nicky, just breathe with me,” Joe’s voice floats in his ears, distant still but anchoring him to this moment. “You won.”

He won. He actually won.

Suddenly all the tension in his body deflates, and his knees wobble; his thighs are screaming at him to stretch and his ribcage isn’t expanding as it should. He puts his hand over Joe’s, a gesture of gratitude until he regains his words. Joe smiles at him, eyes crinkling.

“Brought your water bottle” he says, almost as an afterthought.

Nicky smile back, almost on the verge of laughing due to the elation he feels at his victory and the giddiness overtaking him at the warmth of Joe’s touch. 

“I won,” he repeats dumbly back at Joe.

“How are you going to celebrate your big win, then?’ Joe asks, already leading Nicky away through the parking lot.

“There’s no need for celebrations. I just need to focus on the next one”

Don’t let your wins get to your head, his old coaches would say. Focus on the next race, cut your losses down. You have to work twice as heard to remain at the top, once you make it there.

Joe looks as if he wants to say something, but he shakes his head. “I don’t think you’ll be able to avoid getting dragged to a bar by Andy, my friend.”

Joe’s hand still on his shoulder, his arm around him, hips brushing with Nicky’s as they squeeze onto a pedestrian lane. Maybe that alone feels like a reward, a celebration, already.

*

He was not lying about the bar thing. Andy showed up half an hour later, while they were resting on a park bench and took no prisoners. Although Joe admits he distorted the truth when he mentioned a bar, singular. 

They’ve already been to two other bars and Nicky has grown comfortably tipsy when Nile joins them halfway through, dragging a very amused Quýnh by the arm. Before they can make it to a fourth bar, Booker invites to come over to his place and join the party that is already going on there.

It takes a while for their little group to get to Booker’s house from the bar. It doesn’t help that Andy, who decided to steer them in the right direction, has been doing shots since bar number two. But they finally make it to a house located close to campus.

Joe walks in, the comfortable buzz of alcohol making him feel immediately at easy with the music, warm lights and table laden with drinks and snacks.

He spots people from his painting class, and walks over, greeting them warmly.

Time ebbs away, and he goes for a refill, looking around.

He’s not searching for Nicky, not really, but when he sees him, surrounded by younger runners, he can’t help but smile. Looks like today’s winner is going to start winning popularity contests.

He stands there, observing the flush on Nicky’s cheeks as he swirls his drink, nodding to an enthusiastic girl who also took part in the race.

It looks like they are having fun, until suddenly it doesn’t. The music changes to a loud track and Nicky’s face across the room has turned almost sour. Joe instinctively moves toward him, until the tendrils of the conversation he’s participating in can reach him.

“I heard you could run the Shepherd’s belt under 35 minutes, is that true?” someone asks.

Other voices chime in instantly. “Yeah, haven’t you seen him last year? Best season yet for them, although I’m not sure what their starting time is this year.”

“Didn’t you get injured?” voices start rising over each other.

“Injured? No way you could have ran today’s time recovering from an injury!”

Someone taps Nicky on the arm, meant to be friendly, but Joe can see Nicky recoil.

He can see Nicky retreat from the conversation, obviously overwhelmed, and before he can take another step Nicky has dropped his plastic cup on a table and practically ran to the kitchen.

He pushes past the group of athletes, towering a little over them, and they have the good sense to quickly scram at the look Joe shoots them.

*

Nicky’s standing there, outside, breath fogging up and shivers going up his spine. His lungs are burning, his eyes misting up and he can feel his fists clenching.

None of it is due to the cold.

Joe is walking towards him, as always not hurriedly, but his eyes are filled with concern. For him.

Nicky shivers again.

“Aren’t you cold?” Joe says, his voice barely higher than a whisper, the deep timber resonating between them in the otherwise quiet night. The noise from the house seems to have disappeared, a faint echo that doesn’t dare disturb the tension.

Nicky is looking ahead, at the sky, at the horizon. He’s not sure what he should be seeing. He feels the hairs at his nape rise, feels a breeze against his ear and suddenly Joe’s jacket is wrapped around his shoulder, one warm hand staying to hold it there.

Joe’s scent engulfs him, warm and surprisingly familiar, and it feels overwhelming and not enough all at once.

He takes a step forward, feels Joe’s hand drop from his shoulder. He twists sideways to look at him.

“Thank you.“ He hates that his voice comes out shaky, but suddenly looking up close he can see that Joe’s eyes are as misty as his. The hand that was on his shoulder not as steady as it felt. “You didn’t have to come out for this,” he says, gesturing to the jacket. Yet he holds the right sleeve tight between his fingers, not wanting to let go of it.

Joe clears his throat, a frown between his eyebrows aimed at the ground.

“I didn’t want you to feel alone,” he whispers, which makes Nicky’s chest ache because Joe remembered.

It was a throwaway thing, he didn’t even think Joe noticed.

Yet here they are.

“Joe,” Nicky hears himself say, his voice steadier. He looks at Joe’s hand, fingers indecisive, constantly seeking for something to do.

And so he slips his own between Joe’s and immediately, Joe tightens his grip.

Nicky can hear their shared breaths as he stands there, almost mesmerized by the warm tone of Joe’s hand against his pale skin, almost subjugated by the soft callouses feel against his palm.

It feels like the last 1000, seeing the finish line right ahead. It feels like the thrill of an incoming victory, out of grasp but almost guaranteed; the last surge of adrenaline, blood rushing to his cheeks, muscles aching and thriving.

It feels the way love should.

The realisation knocks the breath out of him. This is too much. Joe’s hand is at once too much and not enough.

Joe slowly folds his arm up, Nicky’s hand trapped against his chest, and he’s forced to look up.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says, truthful, fingers twitching in Joe’s hand, impossible to move away.

“Neither do I,” Joe says, squeezing his hand. ”But I don’t want to stop”.

Nicky takes a step at the same time Joe does – their noses bump and Nicky hears himself exhale the breath he never noticed he had been holding in.

Joe’s other hand playfully tugs at his collar, bringing him a few centimetres closer, and Nicky’s breathes the scent of him, his own hand coming up to grab at his waist.

He doesn’t want this to stop, ever.

*

Joe doesn’t know how long they stayed like this, holding each other in the chilled air.

He doesn’t really remember how he got home, all he knows is this was the longest embrace of his life.

Interrupted, of course, by Booker stumbling outside, yelling something about Paracelsius, and falling down the short flight of stairs to the backyard.

Joe doesn’t much remember Booker’s face, focused as he was on Nicky’s.

It’s as though that one moment, watching him push past people into a too crowded kitchen, seeing the same distress in his eyes as when he finishes a race, made everything click for Joe.

He wants to be the one to watch over him. Wants to be the one who knows Nicky’s brain, inside and out. Wants to know what overwhelms him, what calms him down. _He_ wants to be that person for Nicky, no matter what.

He’s not sure Nicky wants this from him – not even sure Nicky wants this from anyone.

Joe grunts, grabbing a pillow to hold, refusing to move back to his bedroom. He’ll blame Nicolò for his backache in the morning.

*

In the morning, Quýnh finds him sitting upside down on their sofa, legs haphazardly up against the wall.

She’s calmly brewing tea, long hair loose for once.

Joe knows she feels every bit as unsettled as him these days, but while he wears most of his emotions on his sleeves - intentionally so, for the most part - Quýnh is more of an internal storm type of gal.

She –brings him a cup and sits down next to him. Upside down is a great angle for her.

She smiles down at him and a few laughter lines appear.

Joe feels his brain quiet down, as it always seems to do around Quýnh.

Meeting her was definitely what made the first two years of his degree bearable. It’s been a few weird years. He’s glad they’ve been side by side through it all.

But this is the first time Joe isn’t sleeping because of a boy.

It isn’t like he has never dated before.

But it never made him ache like this. He didn’t know his chest could constrict painfully, that he could lose entire hours daydreaming—because Nicolò’s glass-coloured eyes are burned into his vision since that first innocuous meeting charged with electricity.

“He’s just so...“ Joe groans, hands flying around as he tries to find the right word. “Intense!“

Quýnh gives him a look, takes a bite out of her toast.“And you’re not?”

“Me?” He exclaims, almost offended. “When have I _ever_ been intense?”

”Remember that time you dragged me to see the full moon at two in the morning because it was ‘a manifestation of ‘astronomy’s ethereal magic’”, she starts and Joe raises his shoulders to his ears as she continues.”Or that time you went to a poetry reading with Nile and got kicked out because you kept insisting to one of the person performing their own poem that they were reading it wrong.”

“That just means that I’m not boring!” He throws up his hands, for emphasis. He refused to admit she has a point.”But Nicolò’s his own brand of, um, cryptic. He doesn’t talk often but it feels like I know so much about him. And yet, not enough.”

Quýnh’s staring now, face blank.

”Joe,” she says simply, not unkindly. “That’s not a crush.”

Once more, he refuses to admit she has a point.

*

The day that cements everything for Nicky is the worst of the season.

It’s the inter universities regional meet, which means a shot at participating in the nationals.

Andy has been looking forward to it all season, and judging by her levels of energy and her proudly visible knee brace, she’s expecting to stand all day, running between her runners, the reps, and the med tent.

Nicky can’t help but feel a surge of reassurance as soon as he sees her.

He nods at his teammates, claps a few on the shoulder as he starts warming up.

He knows he gets nervous, but he can’t help but stare at the hilly grounds ahead.

They’re at one of the harshest cross-country courses in the region – the dirt is hard in places and treacherously soft in others; there’s a small river to cross, which means ice cold water jolts to their feet. There’s only one big hill, but it’s so steep even the chute after looks distorted.

But when he hears a familiar step behind him, he finds himself immediately transported back to a cold night standing outside someone’s backyard. Engulfed in the safest hug of his life.

Joe’s smile pushes his nerves aside for a second, butterflies taking flight in his stomach instead.

They just stand there, smiling goofily at each other. Time doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

“Is a good luck hug appropriate?” Joe asks, almost bashful, and Nicky nods a bit too quickly, still jittery.

“More than.” And he almost kicks towards Joe, stopping himself as they collide, Joe letting out a little “oof” sound.

Nicky hides his face into his shoulder, shaking with silent laughter as Joe’s arms come up around him.

Nicky blinks, taking a step back when he senses people staring and feels himself grow too warm.

Joe raises his eyebrows, his usual look for Nicky when he wants to know what’s going on in his head.

“I need to focus” Nicky admits, because as much as he loves having Joe around, he also has a pre-race ritual he can’t skip.

Joe nods, blinking once at him reassuringly. “See you first at the finish, Stopwatch,” he whispers, walking away and twirling Nicky’s blue stopwatch in the air.

Nicky shakes his head as he sits down on the damp grass, unlacing his flats to lace them up again.

\---------------

The starting line feels too crowded. Nicky knows this happens at every big meet, but he still dislikes it. Knows he’ll have to trace in the first two kilometres if he wants to keep ahead despite the hill.

He hears murmurs, tries to block it out but it nags at him, the constant buzzing.

“Genova’s here.” His ears immediately perk up at his name.

“Oh yeah, didn’t he blow his time last year?” another voice chimes in.

He jumps a little on the balls of his feet, looking towards the clock. Shouldn’t they have started by now?

“Yeah, no need to worry about him. He’s got a dead leg.”

Nicky feels a flash of anger go through him, everything suddenly too in focus, edges of his vision sharp.

His breathing grows ragged, and just as he’s about to turn around, face them—

The gun shot rings, cutting off everything else.

*

Joe walks up to the 2km mark, holding his stopwatch and clipboard. Technically, this is not his job anymore. Andy relieved him of his duties a few days ago, having found a few overeager students to take up the job.

He lets them do all the cleaning up and admin. But for some reason, he needs to be the one shouting time to Nicky.

Andy didn’t say anything when he told her, just gave him a pointed look and a kiss on the cheek.

He didn’t question it because he’s extremely aware of what this looks like, and he has decided that he does not care.

Now he just has to tell Nicky after the meet—the last thing he wanted to do was interfere with his big prep.

He smiles at the thought that Nicky might accept to date him, and squints towards the runners’ line.

Sure enough, Nicky is ahead, but not by a lot. Joe checks the stopwatch, taken aback. It’s ahead of his usual time for the first loop. Nicky normally only kicking in the last two loops.

Nicky barrels by, not even sparing a glance at him as Joe shouts the numbers, voice clear.

Something feels wrong. He walks ahead a little, sees how flushed Nicky is. Sees the river up ahead, bites his lip as he debates whether to stay and call time or jog down to Andy.

\-----------

Nicky’s not thinking right, arms pumping at his sides, lungs hurting already despite not even reaching the halfway mark.

At the back of his mind, he knows there are alarms blaring.

But right now all that matters is proving them wrong.

He takes longer leaps, reaching the plateau that will steady him towards the stream – he grits his teeth for a second, bracing himself, right foot in, then left—

The cold comes first, then delayed by a second, the sharp, burning pain up his foot, seizing.

He exhales with a growl, each impact with the hard ground sending another jolt of pain up his leg.

This can’t happen. Not again, not today.

He feels his whole body tense, muscles bunching as he prepares to kick up the hill.

He just has to ignore the pain, ignore all of it—it’s only slowing him down.

He throws himself in the incline, praying he can keep his lead.

\--

Joe knows something is very, very wrong by the third loop. He feels almost sick with worry, briskly gesturing to Andy as she walks over to him, observing the back of the pack (always making sure even her last time is still in good shape).

She’s got her arms crossed, weight once again shifted to her right side – which Joe knows means she’s waiting for bad news.

“Nicky’s limping,” he says, throat tight. She nods at him, the line between her eyebrows stark against her drained face.

“Something threw him off, but I can’t tell what.”

Joe nods, breathing a little too loud. “And his ankle?” he asks.

Andy just lays a hand on his arm, keeping it there.

“Yeah, his ankle,” she repeats his words as an answer, almost final.

Fuck. Joe starts towards the bottom of the hill, towards the chute, and Andy just calls after him.

“Get Booker.”

Joe nods and he makes it down without being too out of breath. He finds Booker who’s standing against a pole, sipping from a blue sports drink.

“Need you now.” Joe says, not stopping, and Booker wordlessly drops the bottle to the side, following his fast walk to the finish.

Joe’s nervously looking down at the stopwatch, not knowing what to expect.

Booker’s hovering close by, focused on Joe’s reactions.

He sees Nicky in the distance, pattering sounds of feet against wet dirt, and he looks like absolute hell.

His cheeks are flushed but the rest of his face is grey, sweat matting his hair to his head. Not two metres behind, a rival runner is tailing him, gaining some distance.

Joe doesn’t think.

“Nicolò, what are you _doing_?!” he shouts, not caring that the people by the sidelines all stare at the interim manager like he’s grown a second head.

He waves his arms, shouting encouragements, because Nicky can’t lose now, not after all he’s done. He’s so damn close.

The paper line snaps against Nicky’s torso, and Joe click the stopwatch almost as an afterthought as he runs over to Nicky.

Who is barely able to put his left foot down, bent over and emptying his stomach’s content.

Booker is immediately there, a bottle of water in one hand, holding Nicky up by his armpit with the other.

Joe only has time to follow them to the medic tent, a poor attempt at shelter with two sides flapping loudly in the wind.

“Sit,” Booker says, voice gruff and not leaving any room for protests. Nicky reluctantly hoists himself up on the stretcher, eyes unfocused.

Joe’s emotions are bubbling over, worry slowly being replaced by cold fury as Booker tends to Nicky’s ankle, hands removing his shoe surprisingly gently.

“What happened,” he asks, and Joe’s once again grateful that for all his quirks, Booker is a pretty decent medical resident. He feels a rush of affection for his lethargic friend and his solid reliability.

Nicky shrugs, still out of breath. “Water was cold,” is all he mumbles, and Booker nods as he presses on the faint pink scars on one side of his ankle.

“You’re icing this every hour, standard protocol.” He waits until Nicky nods, motions for Joe to grab an icepack from the cooler behind him.

“And you’re not running for the next five days.” He says, final, and Nicky suddenly comes to life again, sputters for a second.

“I can’t do that,” he snaps, and Booker shrugs.

“Take it up with Andy. I’m not actually your team’s physio.” And with that he starts rummaging through a box to find something to tape Nicky’s ankle with.

Nicky is visibly fuming, fists clenched tight, and Joe drops the stopwatch on the bed, his anger right on the surface.

“What were you thinking?” he asks, harsh voice foreign to his own ears.

Nicky scowls at him. “I don’t need a lecture, Joe. I won, I just overdid it a little.” He crosses his arms, looking at Booker’s back instead of Joe’s face.

“A little?” Joe scoffs, waving his clipboard towards the course. “You practically exhausted yourself after the fourth kilometre! It’s a miracle you even finished.” He seethes, and Nicky visibly recoils.

“What do you even know about running” he says, coolly, and even Booker falters for a second at his tone.

Joe bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to bite back.

“You can’t even walk, Nicky,” he tries again, “I’d say that’s a pretty dumb move if running is all you have.”

He knows it’s a cheap shot as soon as it comes out, but he’s too angry to care, worry still twisting his insides.

Andy walks in, a mask of calm as she stands next to Nicky, asking with a nod how he is. Booker starts wrapping the ankle, and Nicky just nods back to Andy, eyes not leaving Joe’s.

“Joe. Out” Andy says, immediately sensing the heavy atmosphere.

“No, I’m staying,” Joe says, just as Nicky reaches a hand out towards Andy.

“I want him here”.

Joe blinks, completely taken aback.

Nicky’s eyes are still burning, but Joe can’t look away.

Andy sighs, and pushes him towards a plastic chair. “You can stay. But you shut up.”

She turns back to Nicky, and sits gingerly on the side of the flimsy stretcher while Booker makes himself invisible, neat bandage encasing Nicky’s swollen joint.

Joe can hear Andy’s soothing voice, dissecting the race with Nicky, one hand holding onto his forearm as Nicky claps hers back. Nicky only answers in monosyllable words, but Andy just takes it in stride.

Joe suddenly feels like a fly on the wall, ashamed of his earlier outburst.

Can’t bring himself to be ashamed about how much he cares about this insane, self-flagellating man who’d rather injure himself than let down his coach, his team, and himself.

Andy and Booker help Nicky up, walk him to the bus and help him sit down.

Joe feels absolutely ridiculous, standing there with his backpack hanging on one shoulder, feeling like he’s in school and asking for permission to sit down next to his crush.

Except it’s not a crush. It’s Nicky.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Nicky rejects him now.

Nicky’s eyes are still angry, a storm of greys, but he nods, and as Joe sits down, he wordlessly clasps his hand into his, squeezing too tight.

Joe swallows, knowing this is not over.

For now he takes the silence and the almost painful grip, and lets himself calm down on the way home.

*

Nicky wakes before dawn, ankle pulsing and head spinning.

He’s slept horribly, replaying the race in his dreams, Joe’s disappointed face floating in between images of the steep incline, impossible to climb even as he kicks higher.

He wraps himself up in his warmest coat and carefully laces his shoes.

It takes him more than twenty minutes more than usual to reach his favourite hill, mist rising into a fog, and he barely shivers as he stands on its crest, observing the horizon for the first peak of sunrays.

He feels Joe’s footsteps in the grass before he can properly hear them, every sound blanketed in the fog.

Joe stands close, but far enough to give Nicky space.

Before Nicky can say anything, Joe yawns –

And he can’t help it, he cracks a smile.

Joe, the person who can barely wake up at 9am on a good day is up before 6 on a weekend.

For him.

“I’m sorry,” Joe says in a voice still gravely from sleep.

“So am I,” he says, balancing on his left toes to relieve some of the weight.

“Can I?” Joe asks extending his arm, and Nicky feels a rush of affection. He wordlessly grabs Joe’s arm, letting him take some of his weight.

They stand like this for what feels like hours, until the thick clouds start to glow, and two neat rays of light slant through, aiming for the hills surrounding them.

Nicky lets out a sigh, and lets himself fall toward the ground, taking Joe down with him. 

“Joe,” Nicky says, taking in Joe’s sleep addled features, his messy curls and his eyes.

Joe smiles at his name, at seeing Nicky’s face relaxed and open, still a little pale.

Nicky leans forward, bumps his forehead with Joe’s, breathing him in as Joe’s hand comes up, warm against his neck, his thumb tracing his jaw.

Nicky counts, one, two, three breaths.

He closes his eyes and Joe angles his jaw just so and Nicky tastes Joe’s lips, cold against his, full body shivers running through him as his hands grasp at his collar.

The rush of endorphins on any of his morning runs is barely comparable to the burst of feeling in his chest, his fingers and toes tingling, his lips sliding against Joe’s in a slow rhythm.

Joe leans back, and Nicky chases his lips twice more, before he exhales shakily, opening his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Joe says, quiet in the space between them. He brushes a stray hair out of Nicky’s face.

He kisses his cheek, so tender that Nicky’s eyes flutter close for a few seconds.

Nicky nods, too choked up to come up with any words. He wants to apologise, too, for pushing back at someone who so obviously cares. Knowing it’s never going to be enough but wanting to be deserving of this, of Joe’s attention and touches and affection. Of _Joe_. “I talked with Andy, we’re going to work on this” He gestures to where his ankle is, lying precariously on top of Joe’s knee. 

Joe smiles, dropping a kiss on Nicky’s forehead.

“Thank you,” he adds in one breath, before he can take it back, before he wants to run away from how scared he is to let someone else in like this.

Joe exhales shakily, his hands still cupping Nicky’s face, and Nicky looks up to see Joe’s face beaming, gratitude written all over it.

Joe doesn’t say anything, just kisses him again, and again, and Nicky pushes closer, is almost in Joe’s lap but he can’t help kissing Joe’s smile off his face, his own grin so wide it’s impossible to do anything but dissolve into laughter, tucking his face and nose into Joe’s neck as his arms gather him close.

They stay for the sunrise, and then they stay longer to catch more sunlight, waiting for the clouds to part and light up the morning dew.

When it does, colours suddenly brighter and the cold breeze a melody, Joe looks directly at the sun, almost like a greeting.

Nicky looks directly at Joe.

*

Nicky’s been here for almost five months, everything feeling like a blur. He went from feeling unsure about every life decision that brought him here, utterly disconnected from running to...

Well. To sitting in a café, squeezed in a booth with his new friends. And boyfriend. His boyfriend who wakes up with him when he goes for morning runs, has coffee and a blanket ready for him when he comes back, sweaty and smelling like the cold.

Another one of his friends is his coach, who forces him to take days off when he pushes himself too hard and asks how his classes are. Is it weird to hang out with your coach?

“I don’t know, is it?” Andy asks, dry as ever.

Joe laughs, distributing hot drinks all around the table, nudging Booker awake. Nile accepts her cappuccino gratefully, hands cupped around her large drink as she shoots Nicky a smile.

“Aren’t you a team?” She gives a brief, warm look to Quýnh, sitting across.

“If you can’t both work hard and relax together, then you need a better coach.”

Quýnh sips her tea, warm eyes on Andy, then Nile, and gives a nod.

Andy is also staring at her, but Nicky pretends not to notice. The charged air between Andy and Quýnh feels like a private thing he should not meddle with. 

Joe’s profile is right there, still turned towards Booker who is half asleep and muttering something about a nap. Nile is joining into the goading, this cheerful girl who sits with Nicky on bad days, still trying to convince him to get a pastel blue brace for his ankle so they can match.

And then there’s Joe. Joe who has the most contagious laugh, his grin a pure ray of sunshine currently aimed at a grumpy French grad student. Joe who kisses him senseless when he comes home late from his art workshop, paint smeared on his fingers, leaving flakes all over Nicky’s shirt.

Nicky blinks after he realises he’s staring, feels three pair of eyes on him and refuses to look back at the girls.

”I’m glad you’re my coach, Andy,” he says instead into his coffee, and she reaches out to squeeze his wrist.

Joe finally sits down, and it’s a little bit too close, his thigh warm against Nicky’s, elbow knocking into his.

Nicky raises an eyebrow, turning towards him.

Knowing full well it was intentional when Joe winks back at him, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth.

*

EPILOGUE

Nicky doesn’t really have an opinion on holidays. He knows it’s good practice if it snows because he expects to have to run in snow events now that he’s moved further up North. He also knows he’s been so focused on preparing for nationals in January each year that he hasn’t really celebrated properly in a while.

He’s not at all surprised to be cornered by Nile to bake cookies and drink Glühwein, joined by Quýnh who doesn’t really care about the holidays but very much enjoys the food.

Andy isn’t really far behind Quýnh these days, so she’s knitting everyone scarves on the sofa as they turn Quýnh and Joe’s kitchen into war zone.

Joe hand paints holiday cards for everyone ( _of course_ ) but Nicky isn’t allowed to see his yet. He doesn’t mind, instead learns about everyone’s traditions over the days of December.

Booker doesn’t really celebrate anything, but he brings champagne for the whole advent period and pops open a bottle to toast on increasingly ridiculous events (the latest was Joe’s haircut by Quýnh).

Quýnh brews tea and feeds Andy raw cookie dough as the latter explains the extremely atheist version of Hanukkah she’s used to celebrating with her adoptive parents. The small menorah on the windowsill feels at home next to Nile’s advent candle, and Nicky feels the most at home that he’s felt in the past years.

Joe doesn’t really celebrate either, but he loves the Christmas lights in the streets, the insane amount of cooking, the cuddle pile on the floor as they watch ridiculous holiday movies and Nile and Booker bicker over which is better. (Everyone agrees it’s never going to be The Holiday, not matter how many times Booker mentions Jude Law’s tan).

The days approaching the end of the semester loom, Nicky agreeing to take a small break from running, Andy and Nile his partners in rest as they instead go for morning walks.

Everything seems to quiet down as people go home to their families, as others stay around, meeting friends and staying indoors, keeping the warmth in before the new year.

Nicky drags Joe for a morning walk, not really sure what day it is—could be Christmas, could be one night of Hanukkah, could be the solstice—and Joe alternates between sniffling sadly and kissing Nicky’s cheek every now and then, Andy’s bright red scarf tickling his ear, their hands entwined the whole way.

Nicky spreads out the blanket Nile made him—an attempt at crochet best used for the outdoors —and they settle down, cuddling close, their favourite hill covered in frost.

It’s still night, the sky a dark blue, white hues on the horizon.

Joe’s head is on Nicky’s chest, Nicky’s arms wrapped around him, his chin digging into his curls, tickling at his neck.

Joe’s never felt more at peace, the slow heartbeat against his ear entrancing.

Nicky rummages through his pocket, takes out a small present, wrapped in Nile’s blue wrapping paper, just a little bit crinkled on one side.

“For you,” he says, dropping on Joe’s lap.

Joe looks curiously, shaking it as he leans up. He grabs a large envelope from his inside pocket, handing it to Nicky.

“For you,” he says back, and Nicky cocks his head, looking at Joe’s beautiful handwriting spelling his name on the front.

Joe opens his present, ripping the paper carelessly and Nicky laughs at Joe’s frown, not understanding until he realises he—

“You got me a stopwatch?” he exclaims, sheer joy in his voice as he starts giggling.

It’s a sleek black one, silver buttons. It’s simple and timeless, and Nicky shrugs, a tad self-conscious.

“You don’t have to time me anymore, but.” He waves his hand. “It made me think of you.”

Joe is ridiculously happy, his cheeks hurting, a hand reaching for Nicky’s scarf to pull him towards him, kissing him.

Nicky kisses him back, lost in the moment until he hears the rustling of paper in his left hand.

He pulls back, kissing Joe’s cheek as he starts opening it.

A thick piece of paper is inside, and Nicky squints a little. The sky is getting lighter but it’s still faint, and he brings it closer to his face.

It’s a drawing of him, sitting cross-legged, stretching one leg. He’s looking up at someone—probably Andy, but it could be Nile, it could be Quýnh, it could be Booker.

It could definitely be Joe.

His face looks relaxed, eyes laughing, and he can’t see what colour Joe’s used yet.

But he can see how happy he looks on there.

How happy he feels right now.

Joe watches Nicky’s face blossom into a watery ghost of a smile, knowing he’s processing a lot of emotions all at once.

He hopes he got it right. He hopes he can keep trying to, if Nicky lets him.

Nicky puts the drawing halfway back into the envelope, gently putting it down next to him.

“Joe,” he says and Joe bites his lip at the familiar tone, at the lilt he loves so much.

The first sunrays come out, illuminates their profiles, muted light gliding over them.

“Nicky,” he answers.

*

**Author's Note:**

> This monster fic grew until I had to stop myself and trim it down, so don't be surprised if some missing scenes pop up. 
> 
> Please feel free to yell at me if you feel like cross-country running is your raison d'être and I have absolutely botched it for you.
> 
> I will not take criticism on the amount of time I mention Joe's curls. 
> 
> Much love if you've read all the way through <3


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